


Gravedigger (won't you dig my grave?)

by ElixirBB



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Death, F/M, Sexual Situations, Talk of Suicide, Thoughts of Suicide, Voyeurism, and it kind of is, but it's got some happy stuff too!, coarse language, descriptions of non con stuff, heed the warnings though, in case of triggers, mentions of non con stuff, this sounds like a really depressing story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-01-26 01:44:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1670108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElixirBB/pseuds/ElixirBB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alayne Stone dies one rainy night after getting her maidenhead assessed and proven. In her place, Sansa Stark is reborn. It’s unnatural, she thinks, to cheat death. But she does it anyway. AU after…well after the books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jillypups](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jillypups/gifts).



> For Jillypups. Because she's awesome. And I love her. Yeah...yeah...I know...my girl crush is showing.

Alayne Stone dies one rainy night on the Quiet Isle, after getting her maidenhood assessed and proven. And in her place, Sansa Stark is reborn.

_It’s unnatural_ , she thinks, _to cheat death._

But she does it anyways.

 

* * *

 

It’s Mya who inadvertently sets everything in motion.

 

“Did you hear?” She whispers to she and Myranda at night, when the three of them are cuddled against the coldness that seeps into the walls.

 

She shifts, moving over to her other side, brown hair falling into her face. She goes to push the strands away and then pauses, her fingers twirling the muddy, plain brown. (She remembers when she used to have vibrant red hair, she remembers her brothers, and even Jon who always treated her like the family she denied he was, she remembers and relishes the cold air the north was known for. She remembers Winterfell. She remembers Arya. She remembers her father, her true noble father, not the farce that Petyr is pretending to be and the lie everyone else believes.)

 

“Alayne?” She feels a poke at her shoulder and she starts, jumping violently and it makes Mya and Myranda laugh. “And what, or should I ask _who_ , are you thinking about?” Even in the dark, she can see Myranda’s face, red and smiling jovially.

 

_I’m thinking about who I once was. About everything I once knew_. “I’m not thinking about anything. Just…lost in thought.” _Just a silly little bird._

 

Oh _. Oh. Him. Again_. She wants to curl into herself tightly enough to disappear. How many times has he crossed her mind? How many times has she wished and begged and pleaded to the old and new Gods, for just a second chance. _If he would ask me again_ , she thinks to herself, thoughts swirling in her mind, memories of a long forgotten kiss against the backdrop of green flames and a white cloak stained with dirt and blood, hidden in her wardrobe chest, only taken out when her grief and past overwhelms her, _if he asked me again, I’d say yes. I wouldn’t deny him. Not again._

In the deepest recess of her heart, she knows that she would have been happy. She would have been safe with him than with Petyr. Petyr, with his thin lips and wandering hands trailing where no true father’s hands should wander. She feels the bile form in her stomach and not for the first time, she wishes that she had gone with the Hound that night. _Sandor,_ she thinks, remembering the nights where she would mouth his name in the darkened night, _Sandor. Sandor Clegane._

“She’s thinking about Harry.” Mya nudges her and laughs, “don’t you worry, dear sweet Alayne, if everything about Harry is true, then you’ll be very happy on your wedding night.” At this she grins wickedly and Alayne’s stomach drops.

 

Harry may be marrying Alayne Stone, (but she knows that there won’t be a wedding night. Petyr, and in her head, she will never call him father, Petyr will make sure of that) but Petyr Baelish will be marrying Sansa Stark.

 

She curls her hand into a fist and presses it to her mouth, teeth breaking the skin of her hand as she bites down to stifle her sobs. She fails and she hears a hitch through the night.

 

“Gods.” Myranda swears, shifting closer towards her, “are you…Alayne, are you _crying_?” She lays her head in the crook of her neck, “are you afraid of getting your maidenhead assessed?”

 

Mya sighs and runs her fingers through her hair, “if it’s any consolation, I’ve heard the Brothers on the Isle are very…nice.” She finishes lamely.

 

She can feel Myranda rolls her eyes. “Everything will be alright Alayne. You’ll see. Then you’ll be married to Harry and you’ll be happy.”

 

_I’ll never be happy._

 

“Anyways, that wasn’t what I wanted to say to you two.” Mya interrupts, her voice rising over her stifled cries.

 

“Then what?”

 

“A lady knight and her squire came to talk to Petyr earlier.” None of them call him _Lord Baelish_ in the privacy of their rooms and she wonders if he knows the dissent among his pupils at his reign. _How easy_ , she thinks, _it would be to turn them against him._

 

Alayne frowns, a knot growing in her stomach, “what…what did they want?”

 

“Sansa Stark.”

 

Alayne’s breath catches and she freezes. “Do they know where she is?”

 

She can feel Mya shake her head; “nobody has seen her since the day King Joffrey was murdered. The lady, she implored Petyr for help, but he said all was lost and that if anything, she would have tried to find herself back north. _Just like a true Stark and Tully,_ he said.”

 

There is a fury so fierce that flames in her, telling her, begging her, pleading with her, to march through the gates and kill him where he stands, surrounded by more whores. _I won’t let him touch me_ , she vows, _I won’t ever let him touch me_. _I’ll die before I marry him. Before I marry anyone, I’ll die._

 

Myranda snorts and tightens her grip around Alayne’s waist. “If Sansa Stark is stupid enough to venture north, she’s likely dead.”

 

“That’s what Petyr said. That Sansa Stark _is_ dead.”

 

_If only._

 

“Where are they now?” Alayne asks, desperation flooding her voice. “The lady knight and her squire, where are they now?”

 

Mya shrugs in the darkness. “Gone. Petyr sent them away.” She’s silent and then leans forward, “why do you care?”

 

“I don’t.” She answers automatically. “It’s just…I’ve never heard of a lady knight. I think I would have rather like to see her.”

 

“At any rate, they’re likely still chasing a dead girl’s trail. The lady knight was saying how she promised Lady Catelyn that she would bring both her daughters home. An empty promise unfortunately.”

 

_Father. Mother. Robb. Jon. Bran. Rickon. Arya._ She bites her lip, repeating the names of her family members until she tastes blood.

 

(Wolf’s blood.)

 

* * *

 

She helps the Maester with his stock when she frowns at a peculiar bottle, the liquid is clear, no label on it. Curiously, she opens the top and sniffs. It doesn’t smell. It looks and seems like water and for some reason; this makes her even more curious. She puts the top back on and outstretches her hand towards the Maester, “what is this?”

 

She doesn’t miss the brief look of panic on his face, as he snatches the bottle out of the palm of her hand. “Where did you find this?”

 

“Behind the other bottles.” She cocks her head to the side. “Is that…is it…poison?” _Tears of Lys_ , she thinks wildly. In the distance, she can hear her dead aunt’s crazed ramblings, _you whispered in my ear and told me to put the tears in Jon’s cup._

 

The Maester sighs and sits down, taking a piece of cloth and wiping his damp forehead. “It is,” he starts, his voice barely above a whisper and Alayne has to strain to hear what he says, “ _like_ the Tears of Lys.”

 

Alayne narrows her eyes. “And how is it _different_?”

 

He gives a chuckle, “unlike the Tears of Lys, you wake up afterwards. Long after everything that needs to be done is done and the dust is settled.”

 

_It’s unnatural,_ she thinks, _to cheat death_.

 

“I made it a long while back. I was…curious you see. About death.”

 

“But you didn’t want to die.” She murmurs, eyeing the bottle in his hands.

 

“But I didn’t want to die.” He confesses. He closes his grip around it tightly and for one second, she’s fearful it’s going to break in his hand. Instead, he pushes other vials and books away and he buries it deep in a shelf where no one can find it. “But you see, I can’t bear to let it go.”

 

( _It’s unnatural,_ she thinks, _to cheat death_.)

 

* * *

 

She’s curled on her side, knees pulled up to her chest, eyes swollen from silently crying. She winces when her rough spun sleeping gown catches on worn and sensitive skin from where she scrubbed with a dry and rough cloth until she bled.

 

Myranda came across her, hurriedly scrubbing herself and she gasped, flying towards her and ripping the cloth out of her hands. “What are you doing?” She cried.

 

“Get him off me!” Alayne cries (but in that moment, she doesn’t feel like Alayne, she feels like _Sansa_. Long lost, supposedly dead _Sansa Stark_ and she is _terrified_.) “Get him off! Get him off!” She keeps repeating, until Myranda wraps her in a towel and gently dries her and clothes her and holds her, whispering to her that _everything will be all right. That everything will be okay._

 

Myranda leaves her when she thinks she asleep, but as soon as the door closes, she is awake, body shaking.

_“Come my sweet daughter.” Petyr says, holding out his arms._

_She gives him the softest smile she can muster and walks towards him, gulping when he grabs her wrists and pulls her into his lap, her legs folded over his. “What is it, father?” She asks, the words coming forth bitterly._

_He pushes strands of hair behind her ear and his fingers linger there, trailing down her neck until the heel of his hand is pressed against the top of her breast. She sees him take in a deep breath, brings his face towards her and smells her hair and she shifts away from him instinctively. His eyes flare and he grips her to him tighter. “By now,” he says, his tone neutral; his words anything but, “you would have heard that the lady knight Brienne of Tarth and her squire, Ser Podrick Payne,” her breath catches at the name of her soon to be ex-husband’s squire and friend and she spares a thought to Lord Tyrion who was always nice to her and who protected her and whom she left like a lamb to the slaughter._ No _, she thinks,_ he’s a Lannister, he deserves everything that is coming to him, _“came looking for Sansa Stark.”_

_“Sansa Stark doesn’t exist anymore, father.”_

_“Not now, she doesn’t.” He looks her over, eyes lingering on her breasts, “but after your maidenhead is assessed and proven, after you marry Harry the Heir and he meets his rather untimely end, I will proclaim that you are indeed Sansa Stark and you, my dear sweet Sansa, will marry me.” He leans in closer, until his mouth encloses around her ear, his tongue tracing its contour and she shivers with disgust and stifles the sobs threatening to break loose. “And I, will finally have my Tully.”_

_She lets out shriek as his hand slips into her dress, caressing her breast, and she leaps off his lap, practically taking him down with her, hearing a slight rip from the force of her move. “Father,” she says, her voice shaking, her body trembling violently._

_“You must forgive me, my dear. I seem to forget how innocent you truly are.”_

_She stares at him and backs away slowly, “Randa,” she says, “Randa is waiting for me.”_

_“Run along now, daughter, but always know that I will catch you.”_

_She runs as fast as her legs will take her, sobs wracking her small frame and she’s vaguely aware of passing the Maester who calls out to her worriedly and past the kitchen maids and knights, until she slams the door to her room and spies her dirty bath water from the morning. She doesn’t care; she sinks into eagerly and scrubs until she bleeds._

 

_But always know that I will catch you._

_Always know that I will catch you._

_I will catch you._

_I was curious about death, but didn’t want to die._

_But always know that I will catch you._

_It is like the Tears of Lys but you wake up afterwards, when everything is said and done and the dust has settled._

_Always know that I will catch you._

 

She sits upright in her bed, hands clutching her chest as she breathes heavily, the voice swarming in her head.

 

As she settles back into bed, her thoughts forming the beginnings of a plan and it’s ludicrous. It’s practically unheard. It’s unnatural. But Sansa Stark is desperate and even the most unnatural of things have their truths.

 

Before sleep overtakes her, there is another voice in her head, one that is always there, buried deep, coming out only when she wills it and needs him, needs the strength she remembers from him. _I’ll keep you safe, little bird. No one will hurt you. I’ll kill them. They’re all terrified of me anyways._

 

* * *

 

It’s early in the morning when she makes her way down to the Maester’s medicine room and she shuts the door quietly, creeping towards the shelf and she gently extracts vials and books, reaching her hand in the back where she knows the specific vial she’s looking for is hidden.

 

Her heart drops to her stomach when her hand catches nothing but air.

 

_No,_ she thinks wildly, panic gripping her and suddenly, she’s pulling all the vials off the shelf, hurriedly and desperately looking for it, _it’s here. It has to be here. Where is it? Where is it?_

“Looking for something, _my lady_?” An old, tired and weary voice says from behind her.

 

She lets out a small shriek, twirling around and clapping her hands over mouth as she stares at the Maester, her eyes automatically drawn towards the vial in his hands. Then she gasps, her mouth agape as his words finally settle in her ears.

 

_Looking for something, my lady? My lady. My lady. Lady._

 

“What did you say?”

 

He gives her a sad smile as he walks towards her. “I have served the Tully’s my entire life.” He says quietly, “I know a Tully when I see one and you,” he says, tapping a finger on her nose and giving her a small reassuring smile, “are the spitting image of your late mother, Lady Catelyn Stark.”

 

She stammers, wondering if this is a trap, “you are mistaken, I am Lord Baelish’s bastard daughter. My name is Alayne Stone.”

 

“Your _name_ ,” the Maester says, his hands on her shoulders, “is _Lady Sansa Stark_. Littlefinger has had an unnatural obsession with your mother since they were young and I am filled with regret at what he has made you do.”

 

Unbidden, tears sting her eyes and she looks at him, her sight blurring with the tears, “will you help me then?” She whispers. “Please, will…will you help me?”

 

He nods, “but not here.”

 

“Where? _When_?” She asks desperately, her voice gaining volume.

 

He shushes her softly, gently. “When you get off this blasted rock. The Isle. After your maidenhood is assessed and proven. Then, I will help you.”

 

Relief floods through her and only a little too late, so does suspicion. “ _Why_? Why are you so willing to help me and defy Lord Baelish?”

 

He blinks, “Before my family served the Tully’s, we lived north. Did you know that?” She shakes her head and he continues, “and you of all people, Lady Stark, know, _the north remembers_.” He pauses and scrunches his nose, “besides, I would give my last breath to see all of that whoreson’s plans come to ruin. Pardon my language, my lady.”

 

And for the first time in years, Sansa Stark laughs.

 

* * *

 

It is in the middle of their journey to the Quiet Isle that she learns of the Hound’s ( _Sandor_ , she reminds herself, _Sandor Clegane_ ) fate.

 

“He raped and pillaged the Saltpans, Killing women and children, bashing their skulls in.” One of the knights who joined them says; wine spilling from his cup to the floor.

 

Her heart is hammering aginst her chest, rattling to be let out. “His brother,” she says, her voice cracking before she clears her throat, “It is said that Gregor is the monster. Not…not the Hound.”

 

The knight gives her a strange look, and Myranda, whom Sansa begged to come along, gives her a warning one, the Maester stays silent. “That is true,” he concedes, “but the Mountain has been long dead and as they say, _family is family_.”

 

“You know nothing.” She hisses, her eyes stinging as she gets up, nearly turning over the table in her haste.

 

“I know that he deserted his duty. He is a turncloak and you have never even _met_ the Hound. Nor the Mountain. So, don’t presume to know anything. You’re just the bastard daughter of Lord Baelish. You’re nothing but a wench, lucky enough to make a good enough match.”

 

Myranda is indignant but it is the Maester who stands up, his voice echoing in the room. “Despite her birth, she is still a _lady_ and you _ser,_ apologize at once or you will find that the next time you come to me for matters pertaining to your _own_ wenches, you’ll find me suddenly _out of medicine_.”

 

The knight blanches and though he does apologize, it is far from sincere.

 

Not that she cares.

 

Instead, she turns and flees, barely hearing Myranda’s excuses for her as she reaches her room and slams the door behind her, crumbling to the floor, sobs tearing at her throat.

 

Not long after, Myranda creeps into the room and she gathers her up, pushing her hair back and kissing her temple. “He’s dead,” she weeps, “he’s dead.”

 

“I know, my lady.” Myranda whispers softly. “I know.”

 

(It isn’t until Sansa is dying that she remember Myranda’s soft spoken words and reverent _my lady_.)

 

* * *

 

When she finally steps off the ship, being greeted by a handful of Brother’s, her eyes scan across the Isle, taking in her surroundings.

 

She’s drawn to a hill a little ways off, the cliff overlooking the sea as it laps at the rocks and she frowns when she sees a tall man, broad in shoulders, big everywhere else, digging. She pushes her hair back from her face as she continues studying the man in the distant, a strange feeling fluttering through her very core and settling into her blood.

 

“Who is he and what is he doing?” She asks, drawing the Elder Brother’s attention.

 

He stares at her and then the other Brother and then back at her. “That is our Silent Brother. He is also our gravedigger.” Even more gently, he explains, “he is digging graves for the dead.”

 

“Oh.” She replies, her eyes never leaving the figure in the distance.

 

Idly, she wonders which grave he’s digging for her.

* * *

She is reclining against a table, her nerves on end. The Elder Brother is at the other side of the room and she can hear the footsteps of the others, gathering their things.

 

It is the only time she and the Elder Brother have been alone and she knows that if she doesn’t take this time to ask him, she’s afraid she won’t ever have the chance. “I heard that the Hound came through here.”

 

“The Hound,” the Elder Brother says after a moment of silence, “is still here.”

 

She sits up so suddenly she makes herself dizzy. “He’s here? I thought…I had heard that he died.”

 

He turns around and looks at her, his face frowning, eyes crinkling in curiosity. “He is dead.” He says carefully. “I buried the Hound.”

 

She swallows the bitter disappointment and nods, blinking against the stinging in her eyes and laying back on the table, staring at the ceiling. “How did he die?” She asks.

 

“A wound in his leg.”

 

“Where is he buried?”

 

“I beg your pardon, but why would you like to know?”

 

_I want to beg for forgiveness. I want him to know that I thought of him every single day. That I dreamt of him. That he kept me alive in the darkest time of my life._ “Everyone deserves someone to mourn them.”

 

“Those are kind and wise words.”

 

There is nothing kind about them. They’re just her own truth.

* * *

The hem of her dress is muddy as she makes her way up the hill, towards the graves. She follows the path the Elder Brother traced for her until she comes across a lone grave a little ways off from everyone else.

 

“Even in death, you prefer to be alone.” She mutters as she reaches the tombstone. She sinks to her knees, the wet ground soaking her through her dress. She traces her fingertips across the stone, breath catching. “I am sorry. I am so sorry.” She wipes her face with the sleeve of her dress, “I thought of you. Every night. Every day. I thought of you and regretted not going with you that night. You always said I was a stupid little bird and you were right. I should have…if I was there…maybe…”

 

“You’d be just as dead.” A deep, raspy and familiar voice reaches her ears.

 

She whips her head around and she sees the supposed Silent Brother leaning against another tombstone. His cowl covers his face, but her heart quickens, her breath stuck in her throat until she finds it hard to breathe. “You…you’re _dead_.”

 

He snorts, “I should be.”

 

She scrambles up, slipping once and then twice, his body reaching forward and grabbing her before she hits the ground again. Her hands, small against his large body claw at his cowl until she removes it and sees familiar grey eyes still filled with restrained rage and fury and his half burned face, skin twisted and gnarled. She lets out a laugh and it’s caught between a sob and keen, as her hands grasp his face. “It’s _you_.” She says. “It’s _really_ you. I saw you. When I got off the ship. I never stopped thinking about you. I…I should have gone with you.”

 

“No.” He snarls, pushing her away until she’s an arm’s length from him and she frowns, feeling a twisting in her gut. “Whatever game this is. _Stop it_.”

 

“Game?” She says after a moment of silence. “Game. You think this a _game_? I am sick of _games, Ser_.”

 

“I’m no fucking Ser. You know that little bird.”

 

“You are ten times the Ser than others.” She looks up at him again, frustrated that all that seems to come out are tears. _Haven’t I cried enough_? “I should have gone with you.”

 

“No. You were right to stay.”

 

“Yes.” She says bitterly, “and look where that’s gotten me.”

 

“Apparently,” he snaps back, “on your way to marrying a lord fit for your precious stories.”

 

She laughs then, tilts her head back and laughs until her throat hurts. “That _lord_ won’t make it past the wedding night because Petyr Baelish plans on killing him and having me for himself.” She can feel the anger and fury and rage that emit from him and she relishes in it, she feeds off it. She bares her teeth at him, standing to her full height but still so small in comparison to him. “I will die before that happens.”

 

He frowns and stares at her, eyes taking her in and she feels her body flush at his appraising look. “It seems, you finally owe me a story, little bird.”

 

_(You owe me a song. Sing, little bird. Sing for your life.)_

 

She grins at him, cheeks flushing, “I’ll gladly sing it for you.”

 

He barks out a laugh and shakes his head and for a moment, just a moment, everything is as it should be.

* * *

It is well past dark when she finishes her story, the light of the moon illuminating them.

 

He is, quite possibly, the angriest she has ever seen him.

 

“Sandor?” She says softly, his name falling from her lips like it has done a hundred times over, “Sandor, say something.”

 

“I’ll kill him.” He growls.

 

“No.” She says quickly. At his incredulous look, she hastens to explain herself. “When he dies, it will be by the hands of a Stark.”

 

Silence reigns between them and in the distance she can hear the _hoot hoot_ of owls and chirps of crickets and if she concentrates enough she can hear the barking of hounds and howls of wolves and here on this small isle, is where the night and her creatures come alive.

 

“This plan of yours,” he begins hesitantly and she knows he’s against it, knows that there is no guarantee that she will wake up again but it’s the only chance she has to escape from Petyr and ensure he doesn’t try to find her. _Run along but always know that I will catch you_. “Will it work?”

 

“The Maester seems to think so.” She looks at him from underneath her lids, “I will only appear dead.”

 

“And where will you go? When you are dead and finally free?”

 

“Braavos.” She says suddenly and then she laughs, wrapping her arms around her to ward off the sudden chill. “I don’t know why, but I feel as if I’m being called to Braavos.”

 

He falls silent, his eyes not leaving hers and it occurs to her that he hasn’t taken his eyes off of her since he announced himself amongst the tombstones.

 

She looks around her at the graves and she wonders how many of them he has actually dug. “Sandor, if I ask one thing of you, would you grant me it?”

 

He nods, his eyes staring at her intensely.

 

“I would ask you to dig my grave next to yours.” She says pointing towards the lone tombstone falsely claiming to be the Hound’s. She takes a deep breath and stands up, her knees weak. She gives him a trembling smile. “I should…I need to…the Maester…he’s waiting.” At his nod, she takes a deep breath, _if I had a chance to go back, I would say yes. I wouldn’t deny you. Not again_. “Will you come with me?” She blurts out, cheeks burning with embarrassment. “To Braavos, I mean. Will you…will you come…with me?” She trails off pathetically and shrinking under his gaze.

 

“You should fucking know by now girl, I’d follow you into the seven bloody hells.”

 

She gives him a smile and she thinks it’s the first true smile in years and it’s only fitting that she grants it to him. “Now,” she chirps softly, “I have a date to cheat the Stranger himself.”

 

( _I’d follow you into the seven bloody hells_.)

* * *

“Drink this when you are ready.” The Maester tells her, his face soft and eyes gentle as he looks down at her.

 

She’s sitting on her bed, her sleeping gown and robe thrown over her body. She nods, the words stuck in her throat as her stomach suddenly erupts in nerves. “…and I shall wake?”

 

His nod comes, but only a second too late and her eyes widen when she sees the glint of steel pressed against the back of the Maester’s neck. “Answer her.”

 

“You _should_ , my lady.”

 

Sandor growls and it echoes throughout the room. “What game is this? Who are you working for? Answer me or I’ll gut your fucking entrails.”

 

“No one.” The Maester cries out. “I work for one.” His eyes turn to Sansa’s and he pleads with her silently. “One can never be certain when it comes to…” He trails off and looks at the ground.

 

Sansa understands immediately. “Death.” She finishes quietly. “One can never be certain when it comes to death.” She gives them a smile and gets up, placing her hand on Sandor’s. “It’s alright. I will be fine. I have faith.”

 

“You have too fucking much of it.” Sandor snaps at her.

 

“Maybe.” She concedes, “but right now, I need it to trust the Maester. _We_ need it to trust the Maester. Let him go.”

 

He laughs and it’s bitter, hollow, dark and it makes her stomach twirl and churn. “Let him go and leave you to die and let me dig your bloody grave.”

 

She bites her lip, eyes never straying from his as the Maester slips from his grip and slides to the wall, watching them with interest. “Have I asked too much of you?” There is fear like she has never known in her stomach and she begs, prays and pleads that she’s wrong, that he won’t leave her, that he won’t fail her. _You can’t. Please. You can’t. Not you. Anyone but you._

“Little bird.” He says, and she sucks in a deep breath, her body igniting at his nickname for her. He falls silent after that, not saying anything more but Sansa hears what he doesn’t say, _you can ask anything of me and I’ll grant it. I’ll follow you into the seven bloody hells._

She gives him a watery smile and slips into her bed, mindful of the Maester turning his head in modesty. But not Sandor. No. He stares at her intensely, as if making sure she doesn’t disappear again and if she does, promising that he’ll follow.

 

She drinks the cup the Maester has laid out for her. It’s a cup of cool water and were she anyone else, she wouldn’t think that it held anything else in it.

 

She starts feeling tired minutes after drinking it and she lies down, eyes straining against her heaviness. “Sandor, you’ll be here when I wake?”

 

“I’m not going anywhere, little bird.”

 

And softly, so softly she almost misses it, she hears, _no one will hurt you again. I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them all._

(She thinks it’s the sweetest proclamation of love she’s ever heard.)

* * *

“Randa?” She asks drowsily, her eyelids are heavy but she makes out the familiar silhouette of her friend.

 

“Shh…” she whispers, hands going to her hair. “The potion is working, my lady. You just need to sleep.”

 

_My lady. My lady. Lady._

 

“How’d you…” she trails off, body jerking as she slips further into the beckoning darkness and she thinks she hears laughter in the distance, familiar laughter and suddenly all she can smell is the cold and it reminds her of home. Of Winterfell. _Wait for me,_ she wants to call out to the laughter, _I’m coming. I’m coming. Wait for me. Don’t leave me alone._

“Your hair.” Myranda says, her voice drowning. “When your true shade comes in, it’s Tully red. I know my Tully’s. And you were always too proper to be a bastard.” She presses her lips to her temple. “I will die with your secret, my lady. May we meet again in your next life.”

 

_I’d follow you into the bloody seven hells._

 

_Sandor,_ she wants to call out, _Sandor, will you be there when I wake?_

 

Before she finally slips into the blissful darkness, she thinks she hears; _I’m here. I’m not going anywhere, little bird._

* * *

 

When she wakes, it’s with a gasp, water soaking her face ( _rain_ , she realizes, _it’s raining_ ) and in the dark (in the distance she can hear the _hoot hoot_ of owls and chirps of crickets and if she concentrates enough she can hear the barking of hounds and howls of wolves and here on this small isle, is where the night and her creatures come alive.)

 

She breathes heavily and almost screams when a hand places itself on her shoulder.

 

“Hush, little bird,” his raspy voice echoes in her ear and she shivers, partly from the shock, partly from having just woken up from death, but mostly she thinks because of the heat from his mouth so close to her ear.

 

He lifts her up and settles her against the tombstone. _His_ , she thinks. _The Hound’s,_ she corrects herself, and staring at the muscles in his back as he shovels dirt back into the hole in the ground and (her hole in the ground, next to his, exactly where she asked him to bury her), she knows the Hound never died. Not truly.

 

He’s breathing harder when he’s done, leaning against the shovel, pushing back wet strands of his hair from his face. “There’s a ship ready to take us to Braavos.” He hesitates. “Is this still what you want?”

 

She has finally tasted freedom and she is not going back to her glided cage. So, she sucks up whatever courage she has and grabs his hand, intertwining her small fingers with his much larger ones. “It is _all_ I want.”

 

(And just like he should have done those years ago, he spirits her away in the middle of the night to the safety she longs for, the rain washing away their footsteps and all that is left is the stillness of the grave, where Alayne Stone and The Hound are buried amongst the nameless, side by side.)

 

* * *

 

Alayne Stone dies one rainy night on the Quiet Isle, after her getting her maidenhood assessed and proven. And in her place, Sansa Stark is reborn.

_It’s unnatural_ , she thinks, staring at him as he sleeps, the ship rocking back and forth on the water, his face morphed into the only sort of calm she thinks he can find in his dreams and idly, she wonders what he dreams about ( _does he dream about me? Has he ever dreamt about me?),_ she reaches out and cups his cheek, running the pads of her fingers across his burnt flesh and she can feel her heart pounding thunderously against her chest, _to cheat death._

 

But even the most unnatural of things have their truths.

 

She settles down on the bed that is too small for the both of them and wraps her body around his, not caring about the inappropriateness of it. She buries her head in the crook of his neck and all but stops breathing when his arm wraps around her body, pulling her closer towards him.

 

_(Sandor, will you be there when I wake up?_

_I’m not going anywhere, little bird.)_


	2. Part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Jillypups
> 
> Also: there's smut. Smutty smut smut. Just warning y'all.

When they land in Braavos, it’s night and cold enough that they can see little puffs of white emit from their mouths when they breathe. She shivers, wrapping her cloak tighter around her body and leans into him. It’s a small gesture, almost unnoticeable, but Sandor notices it. He notices everything about her. It’s all he does, it’s all he can think to do, eyes darting towards her face, her eyes, her body; ears straining to hear her voice, melodious and smooth.

 

(Sometimes, he thinks she’s a witch with enough power to render him hopeless with a mere stare. He gets angry and snaps at her when she bites her lip and bats her eyes, voice snarling that she’s _better than a whore, or is that what Littlefucker taught you?_ She slapped him that night, across the face and for once he’s shocked and she looks horrified but refuses to cower away like the craven he knows _he_ is. _There’s a wolf in you after all_ , he says a tiny hint of amusement in his tone. She narrows her eyes and twirls away, her skirts swishing and she storms out of the door, slamming it hard enough that the walls shake.

 

He hears her cry that night through the thin walls and his chest twists and he drinks until he makes himself sick. It doesn’t help. All he hears are her cries. All he sees are her tearstained blue eyes.)

 

“What are we to do?” She asks him quietly, eyes searching into the darkness, seeing the shadows that lurk in the corners.

 

Out of instinct, one of his hands goes to the hilt of his sword and the other grips the back of her cloak, pressing her harder against him. “We’ll find an inn for the night.” He replies.

 

“And then what?”

 

They don’t have a lot with them, but enough to last at least a week in a cheap inn if they don’t find lodging and soon. He’ll have to find a job, not that it would be hard with his build and the seven know she will have to do something other than chirp. “You wanted to come to this blasted land.” He snaps, his eyes flitting towards the shadows that move faster than he would have liked. _The fucking Braavosi, good to know I still can’t fucking stand them._ “No one said starting over would be easy, girl.”

 

“I know it’s not going to be easy.” She says through gritted teeth, her blue eyes blazing as turns her head to look at him and they follow the path into the center of town. “I never said it would be.” She pauses and after a beat of silence, she adds quietly, “and my name isn’t girl. It’s Sansa.”

 

 _Of all the stupid fucking things she could possibly say._ He shakes his head and feels laughter bubble in his chest. When he finally does laugh, it’s empty and hollow, “No.” He tells her. “No, you _aren’t_. You’re no more Sansa than you are Littlefucker’s bastard daughter. They’re _dead_. _Remember?”_

 

_Remember how you asked me to watch you die, not knowing if the fucking Maester was right that you would wake up? Do you remember fucking asking me to dig your grave? Do you remember, little bird?_

 

He feels her breath catch and he can feel her trembling and he wants to curse, but he doesn’t. Instead, he leads her out of the shadows that haunt the night and into the first inn they see.

 

(“I will always be Sansa.” He hears her murmur before he opens the door and ushers her in, softly and quietly, the words only meant for his ears.

 

 _Yes_ , he thinks, _yes. You will always be Sansa to me.)_

* * *

“Would you turn around?” She asks, her cheeks flaming as she already turns her back to him.

 

He rolls his eyes when he knows she can’t see him but turns around to allow her some semblance of decency. Fuck, sometimes he thinks highborn ladies are a waste of fucking space with their courtesies and false words, venom and hidden meanings behind everything they do and say.

 

 _But not her, never her_ , a voice in the back of his mind whispers, _never Sansa_.

 

 _No,_ he sighs, _never Sansa._

 

Sansa, who looks in his eyes; Sansa, who leans into him for warmth; Sansa, who trusts him; Sansa, who asked him to dig her grave and bury her; Sansa, who died and came alive again in front of his very eyes.

 

(She is both his curse and blessing.)

 

When something shifts in his peripheral vision, his head snaps towards it and he frowns when he sees a mirror hanging lopsidedly, on the verge of falling down and cracking to a million pieces. It’s not the half-assed job of hanging mirror that makes his jaw drop and makes his heart race. It’s more like what he’s seeing.

 

Her back is still turned towards him, blissfully unaware that he is peeping at her through the mirror. Her back is smooth and unblemished, his breath catching as she expertly unlaces her dress and shrugs it off her shoulders, down her arms and lets it drop, pooling on the ground around her ankles. He bites his lip to keep from groaning when his cock hardens as he watches her smallclothes follow her dress and his eyes are drawn to the globes of her arse, smooth and supple and he can almost picture how they would feel in his hands, kneading them, gripping them tightly, pressing his engorged cock between them and hearing her gasp and moan, back arching towards him and fucking begging him for more.

 

 _Dog_ , the voice in his mind taunts him, _you’re nothing but a filthy dog._

 

His head snaps back to the wall as she pulls her nightshift over her head, the fabric rustling as it encompasses her body.

 

“You can look now.” She says.

 

 _Oh, I have,_ he thinks, his back still turned to her, _I have had my look and I know that won’t be enough_. He lurches towards the door, hand finding the doorknob and almost rips it off its hinges.

 

“Where are you going?” She asks, her voice filled with worry.

 

“Food.” He growls at her and then leaves, slamming the door behind him.

 

(He makes his way outside, next to the stables and with one hand braced against the wall, his other finding its way into his breeches, loosening the laces and gripping his cock in hand, pulling and working himself into a frenzy. He spills into his hands with the image of her naked body sprawled beneath him, little moans and hitches of her breath echoing in his perverse mind.

 

_She trusts you and here you are, wanking to the thought of her. You really are a dog.)_

 

When he gets back to the room, he has two plates of food in his hands and she eats it eagerly, smiling at him, oblivious to his thoughts and actions.

 

* * *

 

“We need to choose different names.” He tells her deep into the night.

 

She’s breathing steadily but he knows she’s not sleeping. They’re both lying in the bed. It’s big enough to fit the both of them, but small enough that if one of them moves, they’ll be on top of each other (and all he can see, all he can think about is the fact that Sansa Stark, his little bird, goes to bed without smallclothes.)

 

“I know.” There is a silence that descends between them and he thinks that maybe she really has drifted off to sleep, but then he feels the bed shift and feels a gust of hot air hit his shoulder and his neck and he feels the hairs on his body stand on edge as she continues to breathe on him.

 

(She smells like lemons and he idly wonders how that can be since he knows for a fucking fact that lemons don’t grow in Braavos.)

 

“Summer.” She finally says. “My name. I want it to be Summer.” There is a vaguely familiar feeling tugging at his stomach at the name but he doesn’t dwell on it. “My…my brother Bran…his direwolf was named Summer. I want…” She pauses and lets out a deep breath, her head falling forward and his body tenses when her forehead lands on his shoulder. “I’ll be Summer…and you?”

 

He should go for something generic like Jon, or Robert, but he doesn’t. Instead, he blurts out, “Tristan.” He takes a deep breath and hears her unasked question as she shifts. “My father,” he starts, “his name was Tristan.”

 

“Tristan.” She says, testing the name on her tongue. “Tristan.” She props herself on an elbow, staring down at him in the darkness of the room. “Sandor.” His given name rolling from her lips softly and he bites back a curse, feeling an intense need for her in his body, starting in his blood. “Will you still call me Sansa when we are alone?”

 

“Yes.” He says without hesitation.

 

She nods, licking her lips. “Good. And I shall still call you Sandor.”

 

“That’s enough chirping, little bird. Get some sleep.”

 

She sinks back down onto the bed and curls into the blankets. “and little bird,” she adds, “you mustn’t stop calling me little bird.”

 

(Seven hells, doesn’t she know by now that she will always be _his little bird_? _His Sansa Stark_ and that nothing, not even death will take her away from him?)

 

* * *

 

They find jobs easily enough.

 

He builds and fixes houses with other men and it pays well enough. The Braavosi men are irritating as fuck, but they’re loyal and they don’t give a rat’s ass about where he came from or ask about his scars, instead, they point him to the tools and ask him if he’s as strong as he looks.

 

Sansa finds a job in the inn they stayed at. She’s a maid, helping out the innkeeper in the kitchens and with the rooms and sometimes serving. He doesn’t tell her he worries about the men, about how most of them would be like him, well into their cups and eager to put their hands on a pretty young thing with blue eyes and an enchanting smile.

 

(He finds he doesn’t have to worry too much, because the innkeeper slaps them over the head if any of them get too crude and Sandor has never liked a Braavosi so much as he likes the innkeeper.)

 

* * *

 

He sometimes finds her staring out the window, the cool breeze floating through her room and chilling it. She’s usually still in her dress, blanket wrapped around her shoulder and encompassing her lithe frame.

 

One night, he finds her like this, walking by her room, peaking in when he sees candles burning, the moon shining brightly and illuminating her like she’s a haunting painting come to life. Like most nights, she has something draped across her shoulders, wrapping her body in extra warmth and he thinks nothing of it, until the candles flicker and he catches sight of it. It’s a raggedy old thing, one he knows very well. It used to be white. By all rights, it should have been white but it’s been _years_ since he last saw it. _Years_ since he left it in her room, during a night when the world burst into green flames.

 

It’s got blood and mud and a hundred other things that should not be on her body, but he finds something seize in his chest when he sees her wrapped in it, pressed tightly to her body as If it’s shielding her from harm.

 

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, but he’s shaken out of his thoughts by a soft voice, “are you going to come in?”

 

No. _No_. If he _does_ walk in, seven only knows that he will _not_ walk out.

 

“Go to sleep, little bird.”

 

She turns her head and stares at him, partly pleading, partly confused and he curses himself as he tears himself away from her gaze and walks down the hall into his room, slamming the door behind him.

 

(When he takes himself in hand that night, he thinks of her, legs wrapped around his waist, voice hitching, chest heaving, breasts heavy and pressed against his chest and her sweet inevitable tightness, clinging to him like he was made for her. When he’s spent, stifling a groan that rips through his throat, he breathes heavily, images flashing through his mind and then he laughs. It’s a low laugh, almost unheard but the more he thinks about her, the more he thinks he _yearns_ for her, the louder his laughter becomes until its bitter in his mouth.

 

Sansa Stark, may be a supposedly dead highborn lady, she’s still a highborn lady and he’s still nothing but a dog, nipping the heels of its oblivious master.)

 

* * *

 

She’s been acting strangely, looking at him more often, worrying about him more often, waiting up for him more often. She’s hiding something from him, something that makes his skin crawl and unrest settle in the pit of his stomach.

 

“What is it?” He hisses at her, his temper flaring into a familiar ugly thing, as he grabs her by the wrist and pulls her to him, her breasts pressing against his chest and they’re close enough that he can feel her heartbeat. “What are you hiding?”

 

She hesitates in her answer, which tells him that she is indeed lying, or keeping something away from him and he’s surprised by how much it _hurts_. He’s kept her safe, hasn’t he? He’s given her attention. He’s shared things about himself that no one, _no one,_ knows about him and this is what he gets? _Lies_. More fucking lies from highborn ladies and courtesies and he feels so fucking foolish, like a green boy, for believing any different. And suddenly, the rage and humiliation that he feels is tenfold. “Do you know what I hate more than highborn _cunts_ and their fucking _games_?” He hisses, heedless of the widening of her eyes and the tears that pool in them, “liars. _I hate liars_.” _Because a hound will die for you, but never lie to you_ and he was stupid enough to think a wolf would be the same. He lets go of her wrist and she stumbles backwards, gripping the edge of the table and staring up at him through fluttering lashes. “Don’t be up when I come back.”

 

Because the first thing he’s going to do is go into the whorehouse and find himself a whore who looks nothing like her and the last thing he wants is to come home and see her, because he can already feel the guilt gnawing at him and he has no reason to feel guilty over anything.

 

“You’ll be careful, won’t you?” She asks, when his hand is at the doorknob and his chest twists painfully at the sound of her cracking voice. “There are…you’ll be careful.” It’s not a question this time, more like a statement.

 

He doesn’t dignify her with a response.

 

(Though in retrospect, he probably should have.)

 

* * *

 

It starts when he leaves the house.

 

It’s a niggling feeling in the back of his head that makes the hair on his body stand on end.

 

His body tenses, hand going to the hilt of his sword and he turns his head, eyes roving over the night and it’s shadows.

 

He’s being watched and the feeling stays with him throughout the night, until he stumbles back into the house, still reeking of the whorehouse and wine. He stumbles through the door, slamming it shut behind him and he stops short when he sees her, sitting in the chair facing the door, wrapped in the raggedy cloak that she should have burned years ago.

 

“Didn’t I tell you not wait, girl?” He says, through gritted teeth.

 

She takes a deep breath and her eyes rake over his body, shoulders slumping, eyes beseeching his. “My name,” she replies softly, her eyes reaching his and she refuses to look away, “is Summer.”

 

He lets out a laugh and it’s dry and humorless, because nothing is funny these days. “No.” He tells her, “your name is Sansa Stark and don’t ever fucking forget it.” He makes his way past her, “seven fucking hells know I can’t.”

 

He falls into his bed, face down and before sleep finally overtakes him, he hears his door creak open and the smell of lemons wafts through his room and he really does need to ask her where she gets lemons from since they don’t grow in Braavos. He feels something heavy being draped over him and out of the corner of his eyes he sees a cloak that used to be white, once upon a time.

 

“Summer, Sansa, they don’t matter. Not really. I’ll always be your little bird, won’t I?” She sounds so fucking vulnerable, so hurt and he wants to groan, he wants to reach out and touch her, to smooth the worry lines over her youthful face, to hold her body against his. But his limbs are heavy and his eyes close on their own.

 

 _You’ll always be my little bird_ , he thinks before sleep finally takes him.

 

(He falls asleep to the smell of lemons surrounding him.)

 

* * *

 

She confesses things to him when he’s either too tired to respond properly or too into his wine to comprehend what she’s saying.

 

“She doesn’t understand.” She whispers, her breath hot against his face and he’s confused as to who she’s talking about. His head is pounding; his vision blurry but he can see her. She’s his beacon of light, of hope. He feels her fingertips, soft as feathers across his face, smoothing over his burns. “Braavos called to me and for so long I wondered why…I know why. The shadows are everywhere, faceless men are everywhere. She’s different. I’m different but we’re still the same.” She lets out a deep breath and the gust makes him shiver and he feels the bed shift and feels a lithe body press against his, her hands making a home on his chest, over his thunderously beating heart. “ _Valar morghulis_ …but not you. I made her promise. _Not you…_ and a Stark always keeps their word. _”_

 

He feels his heart stop all together and suddenly everything makes sense.

 

* * *

 

He feels the tip of the blade right at his heart the moment he turns around.

 

She’s gotten taller, not by much, certainly not as tall as her sister. Her hair is still cut short, eyes still dark and just as murderous as when she left him to die. “Well,” he rasps, “if it isn’t the wolf-bitch.”

 

“I know where the heart is.” She tells him, her voice like Valyarian steel and her eyes cold, lifeless. He recognizes the look in her eyes. It’s the look of someone who has killed before, who has killed again, who will always kill and who will always enjoy it.

 

 _Killing is the sweetest thing there is_ , he once told the little bird.

 

“Then what are you waiting for?”

 

She makes a face, her mouth twisting in a grim line. “I made a promise to my sister. I would spare your life.”

 

“And what did you ask for in return?” He asks, his eyes never straying from hers. He gives her credit, she doesn’t look away, nor does she blink. She does lower the sword and he scoffs when he looks at it. It’s the same one she had all those years ago.

 

She gives him a smirk and it’s full of secrets with a hint of cruelty that he always knew to exist in the youngest female Stark. “Home. I asked for Sansa and myself to return home. To Winterfell. To reunite with our younger brothers.”

 

“Your brothers are dead, wolf-bitch.” He snaps. “You’re entire family is dead. Winterfell sacked.” Fucking Starks. A more tragic and doomed family, he hasn’t known.

 

“Haven’t you heard?” She asks, her voice going eerily soft, eyes straying into the darkness. “ _When the snow falls and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._ _Winter is coming_ and there will _always_ be a Stark in Winterfell.”

 

He laughs and it’s loud. “How do you expect to reclaim Winterfell?”

 

“By drenching the snow with the blood of everyone who tried to destroy us.”

 

She gives him a half smirk before she slips back into the shadows and he’s left alone, wondering if he imagined the entire conversation.

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t drink that night and when Sansa slips into his room, wrapped in his old cloak, he swings over the bed and sits on the edge, widening his legs. Without saying anything, Sansa comes to stand between his legs, her cheeks flushing. She keeps her hands tightly grasped in the material of the cloak. “If I asked you something, would you do it for me?”

 

“Little bird,” he says heavily, the wolf-bitch’s words echoing in his mind, “have I denied you anything?”

 

She shakes her head. “No.” She says, “you haven’t.” She takes a deep breath and steadies herself. “Come with me to Winterfell. My younger brothers, Arya…they’re not dead. They’re alive and winter is coming-”

 

“Aye.” He agrees, feeling the cold in his bones. _Winter is coming_ , he thinks as he looks at Sansa, with her brown hair, the old redness starting to creep in at the crown of her head, and with the reclaiming of Winterfell, Sansa will be expected to marry a lord to keep the peace and he will lose the one thing he had the will to live for. “I’ll take you. I’ll keep you safe.”

 

“And Arya too.”

 

He snorts. “She can take care of herself. She’s a wolf, little bird, she’d likely slit the throat of the poor bastard who tries to cross her.”

 

Her eyes flash, “I am a wolf as well.”

 

He doesn’t say anything, and instead, cocks an eyebrow.

 

A beat goes by and she takes in a deep breath, her hand loosening and the cloak falling from her shoulders, pooling at her feet and unveiling her bare body.

 

He feels his body seize and the air get sucked from his lungs. “Sansa.” He warns, “don’t tempt a dog.”

 

He can see her trembling, see the blush that starts from her cheeks expand to her neck and chest, turning her pale body in a glory of pink. Her nipples tighten in the cold draft that breezes through the room and she places her hands on his shoulders and steps closer to him. She takes a breath and then another and her hands graze across his shoulders, up his neck, until she reaches his face, hands cupping both cheeks, eyes never leaving his, her fingertips grazing the burns and mangled flesh without any reservation.

 

“Sansa.” He chokes, his voice hitching, unable to restrain the emotion he’s tried _so_ _fucking hard_ to hide.

 

“I’m older now. More of a woman. I…” she hesitates, “I may not know how to please you, but I will try and I may not-”

 

He grabs her by the waist, hard enough to likely leave a bruise, and hauls her into his lap, sealing her lips with his. She gasps at the suddenness of it and he thrusts his tongue into her mouth, eager to taste her, eager to learn every contour of her body. He feels her whimper, feels her shift and feels her press her naked body closer to his. His hands span across her back, fingertips pressing into her skin enough to make her hiss.

 

He wants to go carefully, he wants to go softly, gently, everything she deserves, but looking at her, lips swollen, eyes darkening with desire, body flush with arousal and he _knows_ that he _won’t be any of that_. He’s wanted her, he’s fucking _loved_ her, for far too long.

 

“I’m not one of your bloody knights, girl.” He rasps.

 

She presses a kiss against his lips, gently, softly, and everything he knows he won’t be, “my name is Sansa.”

 

“It is.” He agrees, reaches up to run his hands through her hair, gripping the back of her head and pulling her forward towards him and he kisses her until everything in his head goes blank except for her name.

 

_Sansa. Sansa. Sansa._

 

* * *

 

She fists the bed sheets in her hands, pulling and clawing, whimpers escaping her throat, thighs clenching the sides of his head as he licks and sucks her, drowning in her sweet scent. When she reaches her peak, she chokes out his name and he hardens even more, his name never sounding so much like prayer than in this moment. He takes her down slowly, licking her and kissing her thighs until she lightly pushes at his head, scratching his arm and attempting to pull him up to her. He follows greedily, lying atop her, his hands taking most of his weight.

 

She shifts and moves her legs, until she’s cradling him between her thighs and suddenly, _he’s right there_ , his cock pressed and lined up against her. She bends her head closer to his and kisses him; tongue hesitantly parting his lips and tasting herself on him. He unintentionally thrusts against her, the tip of his cock parting her and she whimpers, pulling away from him and licking her lips.

 

“I taste weird.” She says quietly.

 

He groans her kisses her harder, desperately taking the breath from her body. “You taste perfect.” He looks down at her, looks at her hands that leave his shoulders, trailing down his chest, fingers entangling in the hair there and lower still until she wraps her dainty hands around him and he thrusts wildly into her hands, her eyes widening, lips parting and panting. “ _You are fucking perfect_.”

 

He grabs her hands and intertwines them with his, placing them by the sides of her head. “This will hurt.” He tells her.

 

She nods, “I know.”

 

She’s a brave girl, eyes never leaving his, her cunt clenching around him tightly and he struggles to enter her, cries leaving her lips. He places soft kisses on her cheeks, eyes, chin, nose, everywhere he can reach. He can feel her legs widening and he slides in, her sharp gasp making him look down at her. He stills, counting to ten, trying not to explode in her right then and there. It’s a minute (it feels like forever) but he feels her squeeze his hands that are still holding hers, nodding at him. “Please.” She says, her eyes hazy with unshed tears and desire.

 

He thrusts into her, one hand leaving hers and gripping her waist, her legs wrapping around him as she her hips lift to meet his. _She doesn’t know what to do with herself,_ he thinks, as he watches her head thrash and listens to her moans and gasps, “Sandor, oh, _oh_ … _Gods, Sandor_.”

 

Her can feel her fluttering around his cock and he clenches his eyes shut, knowing he’s going to release and release soon. His hand drifts down and fingers her, her moans and gasps suddenly becoming cries. She clenches around him tightly and she shrieks, back arching, breasts against his chest and he feels her peak around him.

 

He groans, throwing his head back and all but roars her name when he pulls out and spills onto her stomach.

 

He falls against her, head in the crook of her neck, sucking kisses and leaving his mark on her, branding her. He’s heavy against her; he knows he is but when he tries to move, she protests, pulling him closer, chest still heaving and thighs still twitching.

 

Gods, he never, in his life, expected this. He dreamt about it, thought about it far too often, but never once, did he think that she would come to him, naked and asking him to take her maidenhead. There will undoubtedly be consequences, there always are where he’s concerned, but he finds himself unwilling and unable to give a flying fuck, because Sansa fucking Stark is beneath him, clutching at him like he’s her lifeline.

 

(And maybe, just maybe, he is.)

 

* * *

 

An hour later, she clambers atop him and smiles, bending to his good ear and tells him that she wants, _needs_ , him again.

 

He watches, entranced, as she moves above him, hands on his shoulders, cries clawing from her throat, head thrown back, her spine arching gracefully. She looks every bit like a goddess here and while he doesn’t believe in any Gods and doesn’t give a flying fuck about them, he believes in Sansa Stark.

 

(And he thinks that may be enough to save his wretched soul.)

 

* * *

 

The next day, they leave Braavos, with the wolf-bitch in tow.

 

It takes them a while, but they do reach Winterfell and find her younger brothers already there, with the Reed siblings, a wilding woman, a giant man who only says Hodor and two larger than life direwolves standing guard.

 

The Stark siblings fall into each other, the two direwolves circling them, daring anyone to interrupt the reunion of the Stark siblings, crying and talking over one another and Sandor looks around at the faces of the others and sees that he’s not the only one feeling as if they’re intruding on what should be a private moment between the siblings.

 

He catches Sansa’s voice as she kisses her sister and brothers, tells them she loves them, tells them she’s missed them _so so much_.

 

“We’d heard you died.” The crippled one says.

 

“I’ve heard that we’ve all died at one point or another.” The wolf-bitch says.

 

“But we’re not dead.” Sansa says, her eyes finding Sandor’s from over their heads, “we’re not dead. Not anymore.”

 

They don’t say anything else; just stay wrapped in each other’s embraces.

 

 _No, little bird_ , he thinks, _we’re not dead. Not anymore._

 

(That doesn’t stop him from wishing they were.)

 

* * *

 

That night, he hears the Stark’s siblings’ voices through the walls and sometimes he hears them cry, sometimes he hears them laugh, sometimes he hears them rage and a little while later, he doesn’t hear them at all, realizing that they’ve all fallen asleep.

 

He lies down in his bed, the covers pulled up to his chin and shivering despite the crappy excuse of a fire in his room.

 

A little while later, he hears his door creak open and he feels his bed shift and he feels a lithe body press against him, cold hands chilling him as they reach under his tunic. “An eager little bird.” He mutters, shaking the sleep from his body.

 

She kisses him and she still fucking smells and tastes like lemons as he looms over her, hands grasping the hem of her nightdress and inching it upwards, revealing tantalizing bare pale skin. “I missed you. I want you.” She takes a deep breath and presses her mouth to his good ear, “Sandor, I _need_ you.”

 

He takes her in her old house, undoubtedly with a thousand ghosts of the past frowning at them, with the sounds of wolves howling through the night. They’re mindful of being quiet and he thinks that he’s addicted to her. That he’ll never give her up. 

 

“I love you.” She whispers as she shatters around him, clenching him to her tightly.

 

His hips stutter and before he knows it, before he can pull out, he spills into her, burying his face in her hair, muffling his gasp. His heart is beating thunderously and he presses himself closer to her, trying to bury himself deeper in her, trying to get lost and disappear inside of her.

 

It’s only when he pulls out of her and wraps himself around her, encompassing her in his warmth, that he lets himself say the words back. “I love you, little bird.” She shifts closer to him, as if hearing his words and the wolves outside howl louder.

 

(There will undoubtedly be consequences, there always are where he’s concerned, but for now, he sleeps, his little bird wrapped around him as the air shifts and before he closes his eyes, he sees snow starting to fall. Winter, finally deciding to encase them in its sudden and unyielding fury.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took longer than I thought it would. Hopefully, the third part won’t take as long. And there will be a third part, because you know, I’ve got shit planned for these two. LOL. But the next part will be the final part of this. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed and THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR THE KIND WORDS AND SUPPORT. OMG. I LOVE YOU.


	3. Part 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Jillypups

_It’s unnatural_ , she thinks, _to cheat death._

 

But she does it anyways.

 

* * *

 

It takes some years for Winterfell to become a semblance of what it once was. It will never be the same, Sansa knows this, the world isn’t the same, a supposed dead Targaryen queen sitting on the throne, and _they_ , the _Stark’s,_ aren’t the same.

 

_We can never be who we once were_ , she thinks, as she walks towards the Godswood. She can hear the footsteps behind her, she can hear the clinking of armor and his breaths as he inhales faster, trying to warm his body from the icy cold that envelops the north.

 

Winter came in its fury, and with each passing day, she can feel it receding, she can feel Spring on the cusp and she aches to feel the warm sun.

 

“You can go.” She tells him, not bothering to turn around. “I know the cold bothers you.”

 

“I’m not leaving you, little bird.”

 

She blinks away sudden tears that come unbidden to her eyes. “I know.”

 

She bends her head in prayer, falling silent and in the distance, some ways off, she hears it. It’s soft, almost indiscernible, but she strains to make out the familiar chirping of a bird.

 

(Things are changing and there is a hole in the pit of her stomach that tells her, it’s not for the better.)

 

* * *

 

She sometimes drifts into Arya’s bedroom, when she can’t sleep and needs to feel the familiar warmth of her sister.

 

Arya is as unladylike in her sleep as she is awake, taking up the majority of the bed with her sprawled limbs and jerking when nightmares overwhelm her, names slipping from her mouth. “Arya.” She calls out softly, before slipping under the covers.

 

She’s taken to calling out her name before she slips into bed.

_The first night she comes to Arya, slipping into her sister’s bed, she suddenly finds a knife to her throat and eyes furious and deadly gleaming in darkness. Fear claws at her heart, lurching into her throat. “Arya.” She whimpers, eyes wide in terror as a sweat breaks out over her body, “Arya, please. Please. It’s just me. It’s Sansa. Arya. Arya.” She repeats her name, calling out to her, trying to call her back from whatever hell her sister found herself in._

_Arya jerks, eyes widening, knife dropping, almost scratching her skin, but just missing it. She clambers to the other side of the bed, knees pulled up to her chest. “Are you fucking stupid?” Arya snaps at her. “What the fuck were you thinking? I could have killed you!”_

_“No.” Sansa disagrees. “You wouldn’t hurt me.”_

_Arya laughs and it’s bitter and hollow and really, not even a laugh at all. “Yes.” She admits. “Yes, I would have.”_

_Sansa frowns and stares at her sister, her chest twisting in pain and suddenly, Arya looks so small, so scared, so frightened and it makes Sansa want to pull her towards her. So, she does. She takes Arya’s thin hand in her own and she pulls her to her, wrapping her arms around her torso and burying her hair in Arya’s shoulder. She hasn’t asked her sister what happened to her. Hasn’t asked her sister to divulge anything she doesn’t want to, and she won’t, but often times, she wonders what made Arya so cold and distant._

_She wonders what made Arya into a killer._

 

_“Do you ever think of them? Mother, father, Robb. Do you ever think of them?”_

_There is a pause before Arya answers, “I think of them too often.”_

 

“Sansa,” Arya replies, turning over her bed, “has your Hound _not_ taught you how to be stealthy? Your footsteps could wake the dead.”

 

“Oh, stop.” Sansa replies, rolling her eyes and slapping her sister’s arm and she crawls into bed.

 

Arya snorts. “What is it this time?”

 

Sansa wrinkles her nose. “I…I feel…there is a shift in the air. Something…something is coming.”

 

“Change.” Arya whispers softly, “change is coming.”

 

* * *

 

She thinks she’s dreaming when she sees him.

 

_No_ , she amends; it’s her deepest darkest nightmares coming back to life.

 

She’s rooted in her spot, frozen in fear and suddenly, she’s reminded of the girl she once was, the girl _he made her become_ and she remembers his unwanted touches, she remembers his voice, whispering in her ear, everything he planned to do and she feels like she’s going to be sick.

 

The world disappears from around her and all she can see is him, hear his taunts, see the way his dark eyes narrow in on her and the way he smirks, the way his body turns towards her on instinct and she feels like she’s suffocating. She wants to claw her skin off and she remembers when Myranda came across her bathing, scrubbing her skin until she bled, begging and screaming to _get him off_.

 

She died to get away from him and now he’s found her again.

 

She feels movement from behind her and she tenses until she catches his familiar scent, his armored hand skimming along her back, reassuring her that _he’s there_ , _he’s here_ and _he won’t let any harm come to her (no one will hurt you again_. _I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them all.)_ She relaxes against him, just barely, but it’s enough for Petyr to notice and his lips turn into a twisted grin, his eyes hardening, fists clenching.

 

“ _Sansa_ ,” he says, his voice smooth, trying to hide the undercurrent of pure evil, “I’ve been-”

 

He’s cut off, his face flying to the left and Sansa stifles a gasp, Rickon jumps back, Bran’s voice gets caught in surprise and Sandor laughs, the sound echoing throughout the hall.

 

The skin on Arya’s knuckles are broken, blood already dripping across her hand but she pays no heed to it, just bars her teeth, like a wolf at Petyr. Sansa can hear the growls and howls of Summer and Shaggydog as they bound into the hall, their large bodies circling around Petyr and Arya, snapping at him. “Don’t.” Arya hisses, her eyes wild, “you dare _ever fucking say her name_.”

 

Sansa remembers telling her brothers and sister about what had happened to her after their father’s death, she remembers their outrage and she remembers Arya’s cold fury, when she said, calmly, “ _Littlefucker and everyone else who tried to harm us will get what’s coming to them. The north remembers.”_

 

“What is he even doing here?” Arya seethes through gritted teeth.

 

“I asked him here.” Bran speaks out.

 

Sansa whips her head around to face him, betrayal in her eyes. “Why?” She croaks.

 

Bran cocks his head at her, looking at her coolly before answering, “to answer for his crimes.”

 

(In that moment, Sansa can see the king that Bran will become. The king of the north. _The King of the North._ The king that Robb never had the chance to become and the king her father once was.)

 

“Crimes?” Petyr asks, mock gasping, hands on his chest, “You must be mistaken. I have committed no crimes. If you seek punishment, why not look to the Hound who stands so _closely_ to your _sister_.”

 

Sandor moves forward, rage emitting from him, but Sansa puts a hand on his arm and holds him back.

 

_(I’ll kill him._

_No. When he dies, it will be by the hands of a Stark.)_

 

“You married my aunt Lysa,” Sansa starts, her voice echoing off the walls in the hall, “and then pushed her out the Moon Door, framing her beloved singer and poisoning her sick son so he could die quicker just so you could become Lord Protector of the Vale, rising in rank, when you should have rightly died long ago. You made me pretend to be your bastard daughter. You…you touched me inappropriately and when I never wanted you to. You wanted me to marry Harry and then you were going to kill him, revealing me as Sansa Stark and then marrying me yourself.” She watches as Arya takes her sword, _Needle_ , Sansa remembers, _Needle_ , and points it to his throat, arching an eyebrow at him and asking him, _begging_ him to make a move so that she can slit his throat. “And you _killed our father_. You may not have wielded the sword, but you might as well have, because my father made the mistake of trusting you and you had him brought to death.”

 

“No.” Littlefinger says softly, “that was your precious Joffrey.”

 

“Joffrey, you…what’s the difference? You’re _all the same_. You all want to play the Game of Thrones, but do you want to know something, _Petyr_? You _lose_. _You all lose_. _We_ are the Stark’s of Winterfell. _We_ are wolves and the north _always_ remembers.”

 

“Will your precious dog’s head roll with mine? He’s as guilty as-”

 

With far more intensity than she realized she possessed, Sansa closes the gap between them, grabs Needle from Arya’s hand and presses the tip to his throat. _“Do not talk about him_.” She snarls, “do _not_ look at him. Do _not even think_ of him. He is a better man than you will ever be.” She breathes heavily, chest heaving, emotions stirring up a storm in her body. “You are a monster and I _died_ , I would have gladly killed myself a thousand and one times over, if it would always lead me to this exact moment, in this exact place, with my family, in my home, with a sword pressed to your throat. You _will_ die. _We will_ have our vengeance and when all is said and done, we will let our wolves make their home over your dead corpse.”

 

Silence reigns over the hall and no one dares to say a word, no one dares to even breathe.

 

“I believe my sister has said all that needs to be said.” Bran says, after a few moments of silence. “Lord Petyr Baelish, supposed friend of our mother, betrayer of our father, murderer of our aunt and cousin, and tormentor of my sister, we, the Stark’s of Winterfell, sentence you to die for your grievous sins against the north.”

 

“So, my head _is_ to roll, then?” He asks dryly, but Sansa can see the way his eyes widen, the way fear clouds them and for a moment, just a brief moment, she almost feels sad for this man, who has had nothing of importance in his life. Who never knew love, who never knew family.

 

“No.” Arya says loudly, her hand closing over Sansa’s fist. “We’re going to carve out your heart.” She lowers the sword to his chest, to the place where _Sansa_ knows the heart lies.

 

(How many times has she laid her head and hands atop Sandor’s chest and listened to it beat thunderously? _Not enough_ , she thinks, _not enough_.)

 

“Do you think your northern lords will stand for this? I am Lord Protector of the Vale-”

 

“Not anymore.” Bran answers. “Instead, Lord Royce has graciously offered to take your position. And Lord Baelish, do _not_ dare to _presume_ to think _you_ know what the northern lords will do or say. After all, you did kill their king and liege and we are his sons and daughters. We _are_ the north.”

 

“Is Sansa going to kill him now?” Rickon asks from his seat, eyes taking everything in with interest.

 

“Yes.” Sansa whispers, looking over her shoulder at her youngest brother and catching Sandor’s eyes. His facial expression is calm, betraying nothing, but it’s his eyes that belie his inner thoughts and feelings and emotions that he tries to hide from everyone, even from her.

 

But she knows better, she, of _all_ people, knows better.

 

(She wonders if he’ll love her less after she does this. She wonders if she’ll stop being his little bird. After all, little birds are innocent and she knows that after this, after _everything_ , she is not innocent.)

 

“Sansa.” Arya whispers, tightening her hand over hers. “If you can’t…I can.”

 

“No.” She replies. “No. I can…I will…I have to. For father, mother and Robb. For the north.”

 

Arya nods and backs away, but stays close enough so that if she needs her, all Arya needs to do is jump in.

 

“ _Cat_.” Petyr says, eyes pleading, “ _Cat, please_.”

 

She can feel her face twist and she can see Summer and Shaggydog stand to attention, she can see their teeth, she can hear their growls. “I,” Sansa tells him, her voice vicious, “am not my mother.”

 

She pushes the sword through his heart and the wolves lunge.

 

_(We are the north._

_We are winter.)_

 

* * *

 

That night, she sits trembling on the edge of his bed, looking everywhere but at him. He sits on the chair across from her, studying her, not saying anything. The silence between them is overwhelming and it feels heavy.

 

“Am I not to your liking anymore?” She questions softly, hesitantly, afraid of the answer.

 

_“What?”_ Is his blunt reply.

 

She still refuses to look at him and instead concentrates on her hands and remembers the stutter, remembers the feeling of the sword as she slid it through flesh, bones and muscles and watched as the blood pooled around Petyr Baelish’s dead body before the wolves fell atop him.

 

She sighs and it’s a heavy sigh, full of her insecurities and fears, “I am not your little bird anymore, am I?”

 

“Sansa. _Sansa_. _Look at me.”_

 

She complies, and sees that he’s on the edge of the chair, fingers sinking into the fabric, as if he’s physically holding himself back from her. “Fuck, you will _always_ be my little bird. Not even the Seven will ever change that.”

 

There is a sense of relief that overcomes her body and she sags with it, lying on his bed, hands clasped over her stomach. “I have not changed then?”

 

She can hear him get up and she feels the bed dip with his weight. “You are as you always were.” He tells her, grabbing her by the waist and shifting her, until he is looming above her, encompassing her in his heat and strength.

 

“And what is that?” She asks, hands automatically finding their way to his chest, resting her palms against him and feeling his thunderously beating heart underneath her clammy hands.

 

He bends forward, until his head is in the crook of her neck and he inhales her scent, pressing kisses to her pulse point, along her jaw and to her ear, where he nips and kisses her lobe. “Fucking perfect, _little bird_ ,” he whispers in her hear.

 

(He takes her not once, not twice, but thrice that night, until she is a whimpering, wailing, keening, incoherent mess. Until, she scorches her nails down his body, leaving marks on his back and marks on his soul. Until, he bites her neck, hard enough to draw blood and she howls into the night like the wolf she is. Until, she sobs, arms wrapped around him, head buried in his chest, begging and pleading, _don’t leave me, don’t leave me, please, Sandor, don’t leave me. I love you. I love you. Iloveyou._

 

He doesn’t say anything, instead he groans and spills his seed inside of her, gripping her tightly to him, never letting her go but Sansa understands what he means. She hears the undercurrent, she hears his unsaid, _not even the Stranger himself could tear me away from you, little bird_.)

* * *

“Sansa, please.” Bran begs her, his voice pleading.

 

She stares dispassionately in front of her, not bothering to look at her younger brother, at her _king_.

 

“It’s at the behest of Queen Daenerys.”

 

“Then,” Arya says, “tell _Her Majesty_ to go fuck herself out of impotency. My sister is _not_ for bartering.”

 

“She is my sister too.” Bran hisses.

 

Arya laughs, head tilted back and black laughter spilling forth from her lips. “Yes. Our brother, but our king first, no? Fuck the Queen and fuck _you_.”

 

“I’m not a maiden.” Sansa blurts out, gripping the armrests of her chair and willing herself not to look at the man in the corner, seething in his own fury and anger.

 

“I…I know.” Bran says.

 

“We all know.” Arya supplies. She throws a glance at Sandor. “It’s the worst kept secret in all of the north.”

 

She feels the breath catch in her lungs and she feels the walls of the home she prayed for so long to be in, close in on her. She leaps from her chair and stares at her brother, a dozen thoughts going through her mind and only one fighting and making itself a home in the forefront.

 

She would die a thousand and one deaths rather than have another arranged marriage. She would die a thousand and one deaths rather than being separated from Sandor.

_I don’t need a thousand and one deaths_ , she thinks wildly, _just one_.

 

She bows and it’s stiff and not as deep as is appropriate but she doesn’t think she’s been appropriate for a long time. No, that Sansa is dead and gone. “As _my lord_ wishes.” And then she leaves, not bothering to answer the call of her brothers and sister.

 

She turns to her right, when Jeyne, her broken and bruised and quiet friend from childhood steps into place next to her. “Jeyne,” she says, “I need you to do me a favor. Just one and I will never ask anything of you again.”

 

“Anything.”

 

“I need you to write to the head Maester in the Vale and tell him to bring his vial. He’ll know what I am referring to.”

 

“Is…is everything alright, Sansa?”

 

“Yes.” She says, sparing her a forced smile. “Everything will be fine.”

 

* * *

 

When she rides him that night, she moans and wails and keens louder than before, ensuring that her voice echoes not only in the room but also through the halls.

 

“Did you want to wake the entire damned castle?” He asks breathless, after they are both spent and she is lying in his arms.

 

“I want to wake the entire damned _north_.” She answers. She turns on her stomach, propping her head on her hand and stares at him, trying to find the courage and words that would make him understand what is going through her mind. Finally, she settles on the words that set the entire thing in motion the first time around. “Sandor, if I ask one thing of you, would you grant it?”

 

He stills, his body going tense and his head whips towards her, realization dawning in his eyes. “Come with me.” She whispers. “I’ve already called the Maester and he is on his way. We could go anywhere. White Harbour, Essos, Pentos, Braavos, again if you wish. _Anywhere_ but here. Just…be there when I wake and come with me. Will you…will you do that? Will you come with me?”

 

There is no hesitation when he replies, “you should fucking know by now Sansa, I’d follow you into the seven bloody hells.”

 

She smiles and kisses him, until the only thought in her head is: _I love you. I love you. Iloveyou._

 

* * *

 

“I wish we met again under different circumstances, my lady.” The Maester says to her.

 

He is older than she remembers, graying with age but he still holds a youthful like innocence in his eyes.

 

“You have given me, not just one, but two lives that I mean to call my _own_. Maester, there is no other circumstance I wish to have met you.”

 

He chuckles and nods, understanding her words. “It will be just like before.” There is a slight tremor in his hands. “Are you…is my lady sure that you want to go through with this?”

 

“Yes.” She replies. She takes the cup from his hand and drinks the water, lying back in her bed and turning her head to the side. It happens just as fast as it did before and she blinks with the sudden wave of nausea and dizziness. She can make out _his_ shadow on the chair next to her bed. “Sandor, will you be there when I wake up?”

 

“I’m not going anywhere, little bird.”

 

And as she closes her eyes and welcomes her own little version of death, she thinks she hears him say, _no one will hurt you again. I’ll kill them. I’ll kill them all._

 

_I know you will,_ she wants to say, _I know you will._

* * *

She awakes with a sharp intake of breath, bolting upright, gasping and suddenly, there’s a hand on her back, rubbing soothing motions and she feels queasy. It takes her a moment to realize that she’s disoriented and it’s not because she woke up from her second bout of faking her own death, but rather the sway of a ship on rough waters.

 

She turns her head and she sees him through the moonlight, he’s a fearsome sight to behold, but he’s hers and she’s his and she thinks that this type of possessiveness, this type of reliance on one another goes both ways. She can’t live without him and she finds that she’s willing to die for him and he’s willing to kill, die and live for her.

 

“We’re safe, then?” She asks and idly, she wonders about her brothers and sister. She wonders what their reactions were. Did they cry? Will they mourn her? There is an empty feeling in the pit of her stomach and in her chest that tells _her to go back home, to go back to her family,_ but as she settles back onto the small cot and holds onto him tightly as the ship sways against the waves, she thinks she _chose_ her family all those years ago, on the Quiet Isle when she asked the gravedigger to dig her grave.

 

_It’s unnatural,_ she thinks, her hand moving on its own accord, to his face and cupping his burnt and gnarled flesh, pressing her lips to his, moving closer to him until she’s drowning in the scent and warmth of him, her heart beating rapidly and thunderously in her chest as she thinks of their life together away from court and queens and kings and knights that don’t even exist anymore, _to cheat death._

 

But she does it anyway.

 

_(Sandor, will you be there when I wake up?_

_I’m not going anywhere, little bird.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED!
> 
> Oh my goodness, THANK YOU ALL SO SO MUCH! Seriously, it means the world to me and just...GAH. I love you all. THANK YOU A MILLION TIMES OVER!!

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, heeeeeyyyy, I’m back. Meh, that didn’t take long, did it? Jillypups, I blame you.  
> So, there is a reason why this is rated M and it’s because this isn’t quite done yet. There is another part. Or at least there will be when I get to writing it and yes, it will include some smutty smut. I know. I’m awful. But you all love me anyway. LOL. I HOPE YOU ALL ENJOYED IT!  
> You all have been so so wonderful and I love you all tremendously. Thank you so so much for your constant support and kind words. It means the world to me!


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